Your World Comes Crashing Down
by SussexDragon
Summary: John calls Sherlock a "freak." The loss of trust between them is difficult to restore. De-anon from kinkmeme.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: we neither own, nor profit from, any characters or situations contained herein._

_De-anon from kinkmeme prompt:_

_John and Sherlock get into a heated argument, resulting in John's calling Sherlock a 'freak.' Sherlock is instantaneously and visibly hurt, replying that John was the only one who never called him that. John then has to go to great lengths to gain Sherlock's trust again (because he can't go back in time to undo his words)._

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was miles ahead by the time John started running.<p>

He didn't know what Sherlock had figured out, had no idea why he and Lestrade and Donovan, of all people, were legging it across the back gardens of a dozen council houses in the direction of absolutely nothing at all. Still, Sherlock was running, and he usually had a reason, so they kept up as best they could, Donovan muttering something about 'the freak' under her breath.

Sherlock, well in front, knew exactly why he was running – the mottled, hand-shaped bruise on the locksmith's arm had given him the final piece of data he required, and he might have only minutes to get to the right cellar and stop…

… well, whatever was going on. He had a vague idea, but it had been far more urgent to find out _where_ than _what_, and the second question had not yet been fully answered. He suspected this was about to become a moot point.

Reaching the correct house (his mental map of London the only thing keeping him oriented in this forest of red brick, green grass and identical washing on identical lines) he grasped the ring pull on the cellar trapdoor and flung himself in –

– only to be greeted with the sight of a pair of worn, black boots vanishing up the stairs and out through the internal cellar door.

Pausing only for a moment to take stock of the situation – child, rope, wires, yes, flashing lights, countdown, but there was plenty of time, Lestrade and John could take care of it – he followed up the slipshod wooden stairs in a whirlwhind of squeals and creaks and swirling coat.

He caught the man, of course, dragged him back to the cellar in question and handed him off to Lestrade with a dismissive gesture at their suspect's left hand, still clutching a set of keys Sherlock hadn't bothered to explain. The Detective Inspector's sigh was short and sharp, but Sherlock was never wrong, and his casually offered deductions were hard to refute.

He was halfway into them before he realized he hadn't heard John say "fantastic" even once.

It put a damper on the second half, and he ran through them as quickly as possible, without pause for breath, until he'd finished and dared to look up at his flatmate, perhaps deduce the reason for his unaccustomed silence.

Though John's face was impassive, the quiet thunder in his eyes did not bode well.

Sherlock showed astonishing good sense, for once, and waited until they were in a cab on the way back to Baker Street before shooting John a quizzical look. "Problem?"

John looked over at him. When he spoke, his tone was incredulous. "_Problem_, Sherlock?"

Sherlock merely looked back at him, a quizzical air descending across his puzzled features. "What?"

He honestly seemed to have no idea what John was driving at. John stared at him, completely disbelieving.

"How can you _possibly_ – no. You know what, this is going to wait until we get back. I am _not_ having this conversation with you in a cab." A brief snort of laughter escaped him at this statement. "No. But we _will _address this, Sherlock, is that clear?"

Sherlock sat ramrod straight and nodded silently, too taken aback to do much more.

"Good."

John sat back against his seat and stared forward, leaving Sherlock to gaze out of the window, feeling oddly glad that it wasn't yet dark enough out to reflect. Both pointedly ignored the presence of the silence that followed them the rest of the way back to Baker Street.

* * *

><p>When they arrived, John shouldered open the door of 221B with considerably more force than necessary and strode directly up the stairs, not pausing to wait for Sherlock as he usually did.<p>

Sherlock followed with trepidation, not entirely sure he wanted to find out what had put John in such a snit. Quickly replaying the scene as he ascended the stairs, he drew a most irritating blank.

Was it that he had run ahead? No, impossible – he'd done that far too many times for it still to irritate John, who seemed to enjoy writing up those so-called "chase scenes" on his blog.

Was it that he had almost been too late? No, John wouldn't have seen the booted foot going up the steps, and who cared if he was _almost_too late, as long as he wasn't?

Were his deductions flawed? Ridiculous thought, instantly dismissed. But John hadn't seemed impressed…  
>If John wasn't impressed, then it wasn't the deductions themselves, as such feats were far beyond his abilities.<p>

This was as far as he got before reaching the top of the stairs.

John was waiting for him, leaning back against the arm of his customary chair. Nothing about his stance was particularly aggressive, but his face belied the impression of mere aggravation. The features were stony, carefully closed and blank, but the eyes were hard, harder than Sherlock had ever seen them. This wasn't determination, or even mulish stubbornness. This was anger, boiling and dangerous.

Sherlock stood just inside the doorway for a moment before fully entering the room and throwing himself down on the sofa in his customary position. He pressed his hands together beneath his chin and closed his eyes, waiting for John to make the first move. It wasn't long in coming.

"Sherlock." The voice was flat, yes, and hard, but he seemed to be trying to suppress his anger, which was a good sign, he supposed.

"John." Sherlock kept his voice as light and free of emotion as he could, not wanting to provoke John into the full of his apparent mood.

A loud breath exhaled through the nostrils told Sherlock he had failed in assuaging the simmering temper. He opened an eye and looked at John, who was gripping the arm of the chair with white-knuckled intensity, and clearly struggling to control himself.

"Problem?" The word was out before Sherlock realized he had said it, and he winced minutely in preparation for the coming storm just as John exploded.

"Yes, _problem_, Sherlock! How can you just _sit_there and act like nothing's happened?"

Sherlock leveled an irritated gaze at the man opposite him. "Because, to the best of my knowledge, nothing _has _happened." The laconic, disinterested voice would do nothing to help his case, he knew, but if he couldn't find a problem, odds usually were there wasn't one.

"_Nothing's happened?_ Sherlock, for god's sake, did you _see_ the child _strapped to a bomb as big as he was_, and did you not just _run past him_?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course I saw him. I also saw how much time was left, and I knew you and Lestrade would be able to take care of it."

John scrubbed a hand through his hair, briefly clutching it with his fingers. "You knew we could take care of it."

"Yes." Sherlock closed his eyes again.

A small, humourless chuckle. "Yeah, and you know what that tells me?" Sherlock didn't respond, and as he had expected, John continued without waiting for a response. "It tells me that you didn't care. You never allow anyone else to do anything you consider 'important,' which apparently doesn't include de-rigging a bomb strapped to a _child_."

Sherlock levered himself up, swung his legs around, sat on the very edge of the sofa with his elbows on his knees, looking up at John. "I had a case, and therefore I was to give my full measure of devotion to that case. My options at that point were to either stop a much-wanted criminal or to let that criminal escape. Are you honestly surprised at my choice?" He couldn't help it – now he was becoming angry as well. John could lecture him about cleaning, or… or cooking, or manners, but he would _not_tell him how to go about doing his work.

"You made your choice entirely based on the assumption that Lestrade and I were right behind you?"

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. "No, of course not. Why would I… oh."

If Sherlock thought that John's earlier outburst was an explosion, then this was Santorini.

"Because it meant the difference between life and death, Sherlock!" He was yelling for the first time Sherlock had witnessed. Truly yelling, not just a raised voice. "The difference between a _child's_ life and death! Does that mean _anything _to you?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to grip his hair. "What does that _matter_? So what if it was a child, it's not any more or less a person than you or I!"

"How can you _be_ like this? How can you seriously _not care _that you could have let a child die, without a second thought? It's not normal!"

"Sociopath?"

"Freak."

Silence. Heavy, all-consuming silence that settled like a blanket over the room and made breathing impossible.

John's eyes widened slowly, his expression of fury changed to one of mortified horror, and he brought his hands up to cover his mouth. "Oh god, Sherlock – I – I didn't mean it, I'm so sorry, I – "

Sherlock sat frozen on the couch, staring through John with glassy eyes. He looked almost in shock – pale, barely breathing, mouth slightly open – was he actually _trembling_?

"Sherlock – " John tried again, pleading.

Sherlock stood slowly, looking _at_John now, and slowly brought his gaze up to meet his. John felt something break within him at the expression in his once-friend's gaze. Hurt. Deep, gnawing pain looked out from Sherlock's eyes, even though his face remained stony and pale. "I never thought to hear that word from you, John. I had hoped I never would. I had hoped you were above that."

With that, he slowly brushed past John and exited their flat. John was powerless to do anything but stand there, petrified, as he heard the front door close with ominous finality. He wondered what he had done, and hated himself for it.


	2. Chapter 2

_[5:14 PM] Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way._

_[5:16 PM] I mean, I didn't mean it at all. It was a stupid thing to say._

_[5:29 PM] Sherlock, would you come back? I need to talk to you._

_[5:39 PM] At least answer. Say something. So I know you're all right._

_[5:52 PM] Stupid. Of course you're not all right. Just answer, would you?_

_[6:11 PM] I'm sorry. I was angry. Leaving a child in danger is a Bit Not Good._

_[6:25 PM] I've seen what happens when a bomb goes off, Sherlock._

_[6:27 PM] And I've seen what it can do to a child._

_[6:41 PM] Do you understand why that might bother me?_

_[6:58 PM] Sherlock, I'm trying to talk to you here._

_[7:10 PM] If you aren't going to answer me, I don't know what I can do._

_[7:12 PM] I've apologized. Twice. I'm sorry._

_[7:34 PM] I'm ordering Chinese. Your usual. Come back._

_[7:39 PM] Please._

_[8:01 PM] I know you've got your mobile. I've checked, it's not here._

_[8:17 PM] Sherlock, this isn't a bloody game. You could be hurt._

_[8:20 PM] Please don't get hurt._

_[8:22 PM] And don't do anything stupid._

_[8:44 PM] Lestrade's come round. Wants to ask you some questions._

_[8:55 PM] I'll have him text you, then, shall I?_

_[9:15 PM] He's having your takeaway. Your loss._

_[9:51 PM] Lestrade's gone. You can text him now. I won't see._

_[10:09 PM] I'm sorry._

_[10:18 PM] I was being stupid. I was angry. People are irrational when they're angry._

_[10:19 PM] You ought to know that by now._

_[10:33 PM] I didn't know it bothered you so much._

_[10:35 PM] That's no excuse. I just… want you to know it wasn't on purpose._

_[11:05 PM] Will you come back?_

_[11:21 PM] Are you somewhere safe?_

_[11:30 PM] Oh, god, I hope you're just ignoring me._

_[11:49 PM] Mycroft, are you monitoring Sherlock's texts? If you are, will you let me know if he's all right?_

_[11:56 PM] Never mind that last text._

_[12:04 AM] For the record, he didn't answer._

_[12:11 AM] This is stupid. For all I know, you're having tea with Mrs. Hudson._

_[12:12 AM] Or Mycroft._

_[12:14 AM] Look, I'm an idiot. My incoherent babbling should tell you that much._

_[12:17 AM] Please forgive me._

_[12:24 AM] Please come home._

"Sherlock, it's… it's John. Of course, you know that already. From the phone number. Or you deduced it. It wouldn't have been that hard. I… god, listen to me, I'm buggering this up royally. Look, I'm going to try again, all right?"

"Sherlock, it's John. I'm sorry about that other message. Please delete it. And I'm sorry we argued. It's something we need to talk about, though. Can you come home? Or let me know you're all right? And… Sherlock, about what I said… it was stupid, it was unbelievably stupid, I… I don't even know what I could possibly say that would make things all right again between us, but I'll do it, whatever it takes… You must know I didn't mean it, don't you? You must know it was just a stupid, _stupid_ thing… I was angry, you were… well… anyway, it's not true, Sherlock, you're not… that… look, would you just come home? Please?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock's mobile buzzed again. For the thirty-eighth time. He had been studiously ignoring the texts, but this time, on a whim, he pulled out his phone and opened the message. The time across the screen caught his attention more than the words below it, although he couldn't help but scan those briefly as well.<p>

12:24

_Please come home._

_Not likely_, he thought drily.

Briefly scrolling up through the preceding thirty-seven, another caught his eye.

9:51

_Lestrade's gone. You can text him now. I won't see.__  
><em>  
>Why on earth should he text Lestrade? It wasn't as though there were anything he could do for him. Nothing that Sherlock couldn't do more easily without his knowledge, anyway.<p>

He might as well. Get a jump start on the case the following morning. Why not? After all, he could hardly go back to Baker Street.

"Damn." His pockets were empty. Curse this wretched warm weather – his coat pockets were so much bigger. Sherlock huffed out an impatient breath. "Damn."

He would have to go back to Baker Street.

* * *

><p>It wasn't that he didn't feel safe on the streets. It certainly wasn't that he had gone soft. It was just that now, especially when he had a case, he didn't want to tempt his demons.<p>

Already on the walk back he had seen several huddled groups, either on the sidewalk, or slumped against alley walls – walls behind which he knew were more tangled masses – snorting, smoking, and shooting up.

They posed no threat to him. Only to his work.

He had slept on the streets before – for cases – so it wasn't as though he were unfamiliar with the grounds, but now, after what might have been the largest emotional upheaval he had experienced in years, he did not quite trust himself to keep walking.

Baker Street was out, as was Mycroft's. Both went without saying. He had briefly toyed withthe idea of asking Lestrade to put him up (also wouldn't be the first time), but had eventually dismissed that as well. Lestrade would make too easy a target should John decide to come looking, in addition to which, Sherlock hardly thought anyone in that household would approve of his imposing himself on them in that way. It had been different before, but Lestrade had since resigned his post as minder, and Sherlock respected that. To an extent.

The extent ended well before mild forms of identity theft, but as Sherlock had left Lestrade's ID badge in the flat…

He would have to go and get it.

* * *

><p>2:53<p>

John stared blearily at the clock, trying to work out the significance of the numbers it was displaying. No wonder Sherlock never slept, if the couch was always this godda–

_Sherlock_

John froze, not even breathing, and listened with every anatomical part of his ear. There! A slight rustle, no louder than a sigh heard from another room, but it was there.

_Sherlock_

He didn't know if this was why he had woken up, or if this was merely fate smiling upon him, but either way, he wasn't just going to _lie_ here when _he_ was – what? Angry? Beyond that. Pissed off? Depressed? Homicidal? Hurt? Or… _hurt_?

"Oh, god…" John scrambled off of the sofa with impressive speed and careened around the various… items… on the floor until he was clear of the sitting room, and staggered upright. "Oh, god…"

Was he expecting to see him dripping blood? Swaying or rapidly losing conciousness? Was he expecting to be punched in the face? Have his (_their?_) flat set aflame? Whatever he expected, it wasn't this.

Sherlock in the entrance of the kitchen, frozen in the midst of slipping something into his pocket.

John was frozen as well, trying to register everything at once. Sherlock here, Sherlock back, but… was he _back_? Or just back? To get something?

Mind flailing like a drowning man, John grasped for the words that would not come until he finally managed to haul his way back to vocality, and coughed up the first sentence that surfaced. "Why did you come back?" No! No! No no no! That wasn't what he meant, how had it come out like that? How had it not come out 'God, Sherlock, I was so scared for you, and I'm so inarticulately sorry for my utter, boneheaded _stupidity_, and how can you have come back after what I said? Am I forgiven, or are you only here to say goodbye?' How had it _not _come out like that? How had it, instead, served only to slam a barrier down in the minute space that he had thought was beginning to show signs of opening?

Expression completely blank, Sherlock completed the action John had interrupted. Slowly withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly.

"Leaving, as a matter of fact." Catching John's apparently bewildered expression, he added somewhat coldly, "Not to fret, I'll be gone in a trice." With that, he turned and began gliding down the stairs. He was at the landing before John had got up enough voice to reply.

"'Not to fret'?" he called down to Sherlock. "What d'you think I've been doing the last seven hours if not fretting?"

Sherlock paused, and thought for a moment before supplying his response.

"Having a cozy chat with Anderson and Donovan?" Only the slightest hint of sarcasm.

"Now, hang on a minute, that's completely unjustified – "

"Yes, well," interupted Sherlock in a carrying voice, easily overriding John's, "terribly sorry, but I can't afford to dally. Adieu."

"– What?"

But Sherlock was already gone, down the stairs, opening the door, and by the time John had fully realized what had just taken place, the detective had vanished yet again.

* * *

><p><em>Stupid, stupid, stupid!<em> Sherlock berated himself as he took the streets once more. He had almost made it, but he hadn't expected John to be on the couch, and John had moved that book – it had been perfectly balanced earlier that afternoon – and he had been caught. _Stupid stupid stupid!_

Turning back onto the side streets (harder to be followed, harder to be tracked by Mycroft), he set out for Scotland Yard.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade stood in the door to his office, blinking in slow disbelief, one hand scrubbing through his already-haphazard hair.

"It's three o'clock in the morning. You shouldn't be here."

Lestrade gaped. "_You're_ telling _me_ this?"

Sherlock finally looked away from the monitor of Lestrade's computer and gave an exaggerated glance around the deserted office. The question, _Who else?_ was as plain as the unspoken sarcasm with which it was delivered.

"Sherlock, you're sitting in _my_ office, on _my_ computer, which you can only have logged onto using _my_ password… and I don't know how you got in here alone in the middle of the night, but I'm fairly sure it has something to do with _my_ missing ID."

The detective waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, and I'm sitting here solving _your_ cases. What would you like me to do about it?"

"Go _home_! Why are you…" but then Lestrade trailed off. "Does John know you're here?"

Sherlock was not quite fast enough to hide the flicker of hurt across his face before his features turned stony and he narrowed his eyes. He gave no answer, though, and Lestrade forged on.

"He's been texting me, Sherlock. He says he hasn't heard from you in over a week."

"I've been busy."

"Too busy to go home?"

Lestrade did not miss the way Sherlock's features fell this time when he said 'home.' The younger man looked tired, then, just for a moment, but long enough for Lestrade to have noticed. Some things even the inspector's perfectly ordinary brain could deduce.

"Something happened."

No reaction from Sherlock.

"Sherlock, talk to me."

Nothing.

He tried something else. "Have you been in here every night?"

Still nothing. Whatever he was saying, it wasn't what Sherlock needed to hear. He turned on his heel and walked out of his office, leaving the detective to whatever havoc he was wreaking on the case files of Scotland Yard.

A few minutes later, he returned, set a cup of coffee down at Sherlock's elbow, and settled into the visitors' chair in his office, sipping thoughtfully at his own cup.

* * *

><p>"Detective Inspector." John stood aside, leaving room for Lestrade to enter the flat.<p>

"John."

The two had a cordial relationship, forged over a few pints and a shared frustration with Sherlock Holmes, usually indulged in at the same time. If John thought it was odd that Lestrade wanted to call at 221B at four-thirty in the morning, he didn't say so. He was already up and preparing for a long day's work at the clinic, anyway.

"Sherlock's not – "

"He's at Scotland Yard."

John's eyes widened. "Is he all right? What… I mean…"

"He's hacking into my computer and solving my cases, if that's what you mean."

"God, yes, so he's…"

"He's not all right."

"No," John agreed softly. "I suppose not."

Lestrade laid a hand on John's shoulder. "I don't know what's happened, but fix it, John."

"How? He won't answer my texts, he hasn't come home –" _except for that night_, John thought, _and I blew it, I blew it_ " – and even Mycroft isn't helping, I've tried ringing him."

"My office," said Lestrade. "Talk to him. I can let you in."

Sherlock was gone by the time they arrived back at the Yard. The office was dark, Lestrade's screensaver softly illuminating the empty chair pushed back against the wall. There was no sign of the midnight invasion of privacy; even the paper coffee cup was gone.

* * *

><p>At the end of a long workday, made longer by the sleepless night before, Lestrade's office phone rang.<p>

"Lestrade," he answered it reluctantly.

"Detective Inspector. It's John."

"John. What can I do for you?"

He almost didn't want to ask. Bad enough that Sherlock acted in complete disregard for his own life. Did he have to drag others' down with him? John was a nice guy, the sort Lestrade could easily imagine making friends with in a pub over an argument about football. Or rugby. John seemed the rugby type.

"Well, I was wondering… would it be all right if I came down to your office?"

"Now? Sherlock's not here."

"No, of course not. I only… well, I thought maybe if I could... I have some things he might… need." John's voice faltered on the last word.

"Come and drop them off, then," Lestrade told him, nodding even though he knew John couldn't see him. "Maybe, for once, I'll get out of here at a reasonable hour. Drink?"

"God knows I could use one."

John arrived about twenty minutes later, carrier bag in hand and an apologetic expression on his face. "Sorry, I'm so sorry," he said as Anderson gestured him into Lestrade's office (earning them both raised eyebrows from Donovan, but really, John wasn't so bad on his own, and she didn't say a word). "Only I had to go back to Baker Street, and it's murder trying to get a cab at this hour, and, well, you know how it goes."

Lestrade nodded and turned off his computer monitor. "What about that drink?"

"Right… let me just…" John said, gesturing to the carrier bag. Lestrade watched as he pulled out a scruffy-looking blanket (odd-coloured stains and acid burns proved it had seen the harsher side of Sherlock's experiments), a Thermos mug ("Tea," John explained), and –

"You're not putting _that_ in my office."

"It's…" John sighed, his expression infinitely sad. "It's the most important part."

"Why in… you know what? I don't want to know. Go on. Won't that tea get cold?"

"It doesn't matter. He won't drink it anyway."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was not surprised, that night, to find the afghan from the living room couch neatly folded on the seat of Lestrade's office chair.<p>

He was not impressed to find a room-temperature mug of over-sweetened tea (he liked it over-sweetened; John knew; just one more weakness of his that John knew) set out on Lestrade's desk next to the computer.

But his lips compressed into a thin, tight line, thinking of Baker Street and late night cases and _John_, when he saw the skull staring down at him from the top of Lestrade's filing cabinet.

* * *

><p>The first time it happened, he was just concluding a meeting with the Moroccan ambassador. Of course, he ignored the occurrence, not wanting to appear gauche or dismissive.<p>

The second time it happened, he had hardly moved. The meeting was _supposed_ to have finished, as he had other duties that required his attention; however, in the intervening two minutes, even _more_people had somehow slipped into the room, and he felt sure that they would all be demanding something of him. Stifling a sigh, he prepared for another tedious show of manners and paperwork.

By the time Mycroft Holmes finally escaped the meeting, it had happened four more times.

By the time he had returned home, and was able to safely check, he had received a total of eight texts, none of which were meant for him.

* * *

><p>When Mycroft had had Sherlock's mobile cloned, it had seemed like a good idea. In fact, it <em>had <em>been a good idea, and continued to be a good idea.

But blast, whatever Sherlock had done now, it was irritating as hell.

By the time he had finished dining, he had received six more texts. Heaving the sigh of the long-suffering, he quickly scanned through the messages, and the two most recent sends caught his eye.

_[7:34] I'm ordering Chinese. Your usual. Come back._

_[7:39] Please._

A Holmesian eyebrow went up at this. _Oh, has Sherlock had a falling out with Dr. Watson, then?_Returning his phone to his pocket, Mycroft tried to console himself with logic. Really, how long could this last? The answer was far from consoling.

_Days._

Breakfast, Tuesday morning:  
><em>For god's sake, Sherlock, where are you?<em>

Office, filling out government forms:  
><em>You do realize this is childish.<em>

Car, returning from the office:  
><em>Are you actually getting anything out of this? I've already apologized four times.<em>

Wednsday, reviewing household reports:  
><em>How many times do you want me to say it?<em>

Thursday, eating lunch:  
><em>When this is over, you're paying for my minutes.<em>_  
><em>  
>Friday, taking exercise:<br>_Mycroft, really, are you getting these? Ignore that, Sherlock._

He almost replied. Almost. Just to make the man shut up already. But he didn't want to become embroiled in whatever madness surrounded Sherlock now. Normally, he was quite happy to, of course, but this – this was _people_business. He didn't deal with people that way – not their feelings, not their concerns, not their cares.

He snapped his phone shut with definitive finality and resumed his stroll, trying his best to act as though he hadn't a care in the world.

* * *

><p>Even with his mobile set to vibrate, Mycroft lost hours of sleep. The fact that John was getting as little, if not less, did surprisingly little to smooth his ruffled feathers.<p>

* * *

><p>He simply could not take this anymore.<p>

By Sunday afternoon, he had decided to intervene, and to hell with the consequences. It was time for this insanity to be over with. He needed his life back.

He went to bed that evening with the first good feeling in nearly a week.


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson was picking up milk at the Tesco's around the corner from 221B Baker Street.

It was quite an unaccustomed experience for him. He walked straight in, found the milk, paid in cash and walked out. There was no hunting about in the foreign-foods aisles for some strange ingredient on which Sherlock wanted to experiment. There were no urgent texts interrupting his shopping with dreadful foreshadowing of the disaster area he might expect to find when he got back to the flat. There was no battle with the chip-and-pin machine, resorting to Sherlock's card to get the job done while lines of impatient shoppers shot accusing glances in his direction. The walk to the shop had been quick and pleasant; the walk back was not going to be an adrenaline-filled dash to the flat to stop Sherlock from putting fingers into the leftover risotto.

In short, it was a nightmare. John's left hand had not stopped trembling in nearly a fortnight.

He glanced down at the carton he was carrying, noting the way his weight shifted to accommodate it and the way, despite his best attempts, his stride was shorter on his left leg than on his right. _Two weeks_, he thought, feeling the beginnings of a dull ache below the knee. _Two weeks and everything is back to the way it was before, the way I was before._

He wondered where his cane was.

Absorbed in the milk and the leg and the sheer, blinding monotony of it all, it took him a moment to notice the quiet rumble of the car's engine as it crept along beside him, matching his walking pace exactly. When it did manage to work its way into his thoughts, he jerked his head up and – yes – of course – the dark, polished finish of an imposing, yet unmarked, car.

A thrill ran through him – the first in many days. _Hello, Mycroft._

As soon as he noticed the car's presence, it drew to a halt and a vaguely familiar-looking driver bustled around from the front to open the door for John.

"Developing a routine, are you?" he asked the shadowy figure already in the back seat, but secretly, he felt a wave of relief at the fact that Mycroft had come to find him. In two weeks, John's life had gone from some strange, perverse kind of perfection to _this_, this awful stagnation… and John was running out of ideas. Mycroft was the only untried weapon in John's arsenal, and John _needed_ him.

He slid into the proffered seat, locked eyes with the other man and…

… that wasn't Mycroft.

His breath caught in his throat.

"Good of you to join us, Dr. Watson," came Mycroft's voice, but from the passenger seat of the car. Mycroft cast a glance behind him and John met his eyes in mute recognition. _Thank you._

Sherlock, next to John, was lost in a deep scowl.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, John shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Sherlock motionless except for the intensification of the glare (if such a thing were even possible). Clearly, he was not here by choice.

John cleared his throat, but hesitated to speak first. What should he say? _I'm sorry_, but he had been saying that non-stop for days, and Sherlock hadn't responded even once. "I'm sorry" was not going to fix this damage. _You're not a freak_, but John couldn't say that. Sherlock would never, ever hear that word from him again.

What else was there? What did Sherlock want from him?

"A conversation," suggested Mycroft drily, "usually involves at least one of its participants speaking."

"This is not a conversation, Mycroft," said Sherlock, through gritted teeth. "This is an abduction."

"An abduction I hope will _become_ a conversation," was the amendment from the front seat. "For once, in person, rather than via one-sided text messaging."

"What is it to you, anyway?" Sherlock demanded. "What do you _want_? You gain nothing from forcing us into an uncomfortable position and insisting we maintain this farce of communication."

"Only a farce because you refuse to participate, Sherlock."

"You have no _right_!"

Mycroft remained silent. This, John knew, would frustrate Sherlock more than anything – this smug, wordless reinforcement of Mycroft's absolute certainty that he was right.

"Let me out, Mycroft."

"Generally, it is frowned upon to exit a moving car in the middle of a busy street."

"Pull over."

"Sherlock, I am well aware of your ability to maintain a petty argument for an unreasonable amount of time. But this is Dr. Watson, and I am afraid you cannot continue this indefinitely."

_Thank you_, John thought numbly, listening to Mycroft come as close as he ever would to reasoning with his younger brother. _Thank you._

"That is _my_ decision to make, Mycroft!"

_But you're making the wrong one_, John willed Sherlock to understand. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry all the time, but you're still gone, and it's like coming home from the war, and I don't know how to tell you I can't do it. I need you to come back._

_What can I do for you to make you trust me again?_

Sherlock was still snarling at Mycroft, something about manipulation. Mycroft's manipulation, Mycroft's pulling the strings to force Sherlock into the car with John. Sherlock didn't want to be around him.

And, John realized, forcing _him_ to see this. Forcing him to watch as Sherlock fought against having to speak to him, listen to him, share space with him. He didn't want to see this. It hurt enough just to know it, without having to witness it in vivid colour and stereo sound.

Sherlock didn't want to be here, and, despite how much he missed his friend, despite _everything_, neither did he.

"Sherlock's right," he said.

Both Holmes brothers fell silent at the unexpected sound of John's voice. Sherlock looked at him sidelong, curious, probing, but it was more than John had received from him in weeks and he was glad, so glad that Mycroft had kidnapped them. _Thank you_, he thought again, even as the words he spoke said the opposite.

"You have no right to do this to him. You can't just _force_ someone to change how they feel because it's what you want."

By now, Mycroft had turned to face the back of the car as well as he was able. He looked slightly taken aback, and John didn't blame him. If he knew about the text messages, then he knew how hard John had been trying to get in touch with Sherlock; the fact that John was telling him off for making it happen had to be more than a little surprising.

But Sherlock was still looking at him, and now it was that same uncertain expression he had worn the first time he and John had shared a ride. _That's not what people normally say_, John remembered. People probably didn't normally take Sherlock's side in arguments with Mycroft, either.

"My brother is being unreasonable, John," Mycroft began, and got no further.

"It doesn't _matter_!" John interrupted. "It's not reasonable to kidnap him off the streets and expect him to do whatever you tell him to, either! I know you're trying to help, Mycroft, but could you just _leave him alone_?"

_Hypocrite_, he berated himself. _How can you do this? You wanted his help!_

He didn't see the signal Mycroft gave the driver, but it was less than a minute before the car drew up to the kerb. Sherlock was out of the car before it had even halted completely. John, desperately trying to avoid Mycroft's disapproving expression, was not far behind.

When the car pulled away, John realized that Sherlock was still standing behind him.

"John," he said carefully. "That was – good of you."

Good, John thought, seemed to cover an awful lot in Sherlock's vocabulary.

Sherlock seemed to be debating his next words until, finally, very softly, "Thank you."

A risk. John had to take it. He might never have another chance.

"Will you come home?"

The silence in the car could not possibly have been as long as the one that followed John's question.

Suddenly, jarringly, John's phone rang. He and Sherlock stared at each other for a moment longer; then Sherlock gestured toward John's pocket and he pulled out the mobile.

"Hello."

"John." Mycroft's voice. "My brother – "

"Sorry, Mycroft, I'm busy," John said hurriedly, snapped the phone shut and shoved it carelessly back into his pocket.

Sherlock's eyes were still on him.

"All right."

"Hmm?"

"Baker Street, then. But we'll need to stop on the way."

John hardly dared trust his luck. "Why?"

"My skull. It's still in Lestrade's office."

* * *

><p>It was strange, somehow, to have Sherlock standing back in their sitting room again.<p>

_Two weeks can be a very long time_, realized John. Indeed, these past fourteen-odd days had dragged on so tediously he was sure he had aged in years rather than in weeks.

Or perhaps that was just the worry, and the fear, and the gnawing guilt.

Sherlock was back now, though, wasn't he?

The crux of the matter was, John honestly wasn't sure.

Sherlock had freely elected to return to their lodgings, if a mite hesitantly, and had seemed markedly less cold in the cab to and from Scotland Yard. He was clearly still uncomfortable, though, and had spent the return trip holding his skull, rather as a child grips a security blanket, and avoiding John's gaze. (During the past several days, John had frequently caught himself wondering how unfavorably he was being compared to that skull. He was both pleased and displeased with his conclusions.)

Arriving, John had climbed out first, and had paused to wait for Sherlock, who took his time. John had begun to wonder if Sherlock was regretting his decision, but he waited, and soon Sherlock climbed out as well. Something about his posture was still a bit too defensive, though, a bit too unwilling to trust.

_Well_, thought John, resignedly, _I definitely deserve that._

As they entered 221B, he almost missed the look of relief that flitted across Sherlock's otherwise stony features.

_At least he's glad to_ physically _be home_. John allowed himself a small smile at the thought of Sherlock spending nights in Lestrade's office, and the comparative luxury of their rooms, and followed Sherlock up the stairs.

The first thing Sherlock had done upon entering the room was to cross to the mantle and carefully, almost ceremoniously, place the skull back in its customary abode. Having done that, he now looked slightly lost.

It was strange, somehow. For both of them. Silence was the norm for Sherlock; standing in the middle of the room, not knowing quite where to go from there, was decidedly not.

It was therefore only fair that John take charge. Sherlock had never exactly been socially graced, and now John had gone and pulled his safe haven (namely, John himself) out from under his feet. He realized that, as he had been the one in the wrong, he would have to be the one to smooth the way, and decided to jump right in. There had been far too much waiting around in the past two weeks – god knows he needed some action.

"Right." John flinched inwardly at the sound of his voice falling into the silence of the room. "Dinner?"

* * *

><p>The rest of the evening was spent in slightly less awkward camaraderie. John's well-meaning attempt to make pasta had blown up in his face when a deposit on the burner caused the flames to leap up a foot high around the brim of the pot; although he was absolutely certain that the deposit was the direct result of one of Sherlock's earlier experiments, he wisely didn't comment, only stated calmly that the menu had changed to takeaway. Sherlock's small smile, really no more than a brief upward quirk of the lips, told John that his hurriedly assumed air of indifference hadn't come across nearly well enough to fool the detective.<p>

John ran out to get the takeaway, and when he returned shortly thereafter, he found Sherlock had once more taken up residence in front of his – John's – laptop, and was thoroughly engrossed in whatever he was doing.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Eyes on the screen, Sherlock grunted his acknowledgement.

"Food?" Looked up briefly, taking in the takeaway bag, and probably its contents, in a quick glance.

"Just tea for me." Focused on the computer again, scrolling quickly down the page.

"Right then. Is that a case?" John heaved the bag onto the table – still far too clean; he would have to do something about that – and began unloading the containers.

"Could be. Not sure yet." Typing, fingers flying as smoothly as ever.

"Right. Good. Fine."

Sherlock hit a key with a sharp tap, presumably the "enter" key, and sat back in the chair.

Had he just sent an email, about a potential case, from John's computer? And how had he guessed the password so quickly? John had thought it would take him longer, but he shouldn't have been surprised. He didn't know, however, whether Sherlock had really – _really_– understood.

John fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before abandoning the takeaway and coming to stand by Sherlock's chair, almost the way he had that night. Hopefully, things would go better this time.

"Listen, um, Sherlock – "

"When did you change it?"

John froze. Sherlock _had _understood. Again, John should have assumed he would. Just because John suffered setbacks without Sherlock didn't mean it was the same on the other end.

"Right after you left. Not twenty minutes."

Sherlock nodded slowly, but he didn't quite meet John's eyes. "Are we okay, John?" he asked softly.

"I think we will be," replied John, also slowly, as Sherlock's eyes met his at last, however briefly.

They weren't there yet, but they had started.


End file.
